


Mothering Sunday

by fms_fangirl



Series: Jealous Time [6]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mother's Day - sort of, Odd Encounter, Other, Reflexion and Reconciliation, not really fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6786544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grell makes a private journey and meets another unexpected pilgrim.</p><p>Takes place a few weeks after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5995357">Everyday Grace</a>, but it should not really be necessary to have read any of the previous stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mothering Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Mothering Sunday was celebrated in the U.K. on the fourth Sunday in Lent. Among its traditions, children would pick wildflowers on their way home from church to give to their mothers.

_March 8, 1891_

Grell tenderly tied a satin ribbon around a great sheaf of red lilies and laid the flowers on the kitchen table.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Undertaker asked.

“No darling,” she answered, pushing his hair away from his face to gaze into his eyes. “I must make this journey alone.”

He nodded and bent to kiss her. “Very well, but you mustn’t linger. It’s bitterly cold and a tremendous snowstorm is about to blow up.”

“I know,” she grimaced. “The entire Dispatch has been put on the alert for the next few days. It’s going to be one of the heaviest ever, they say. This has been a dreadful winter. The worst I recall in fifty years.”

“I’ve seen far worse,” he said, helping her on with her coat. “The Thames froze solid back in 1684.”

“This is bad enough,” she grumbled. “Maybe I can’t die of the cold any longer, but it certainly doesn’t stop me from feeling it.”

Undertaker found an old woolen scarf and tucked it around her neck. “Then why not wait a few weeks until the weather has improved?”

“No dear. It has to be today. Thank you again for finding the flowers. Where on earth did you get them? There’s none to be had in London right now. I was thinking of raiding the Phantomhive hothouse, but it didn’t seem suitable, under the circumstances.”

He looked so guilty for a moment that she burst out laughing. “Perhaps, you had better not inquire where these came from then.”

“You’re awful,” she giggled, hugging him fiercely. “I won’t be too long, I promise. I offered to assist in collecting over the next few days in London. Most of the agents will be busy in the west country. You should have heard William moaning about the overtime.”

“You’ll need your rest when you return. Pity,” he grinned, “I was thinking of ways to warm you up when you get back.”

“Darling, I promise you, I will never need my rest _that_ badly.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Heavy clouds were already scudding across the night sky, obscuring the tiny sliver of the waxing moon. Oblivious to the snow that already covered the graveyard, Grell crouched next to the stone and traced the carved letters. The stone was new enough—just over two years old—that the lines of the carving were still crisp and the white marble of the marker still gleamed in the darkness.

“Dearest Madam Red,” she murmured, laying the lilies against the headstone, “I wish your child could have brought you flowers for Mothering Sunday.”

Her hand resting against the stone, she tipped her head back and allowed the memories to wash over her. Not of prowling the streets of London, luring the Ripper’s prey to her death, not of the twisted pleasure in painting their faces or the frenzied ecstasy in spilling their blood and not of the feverish couplings afterwards.

Instead, she recalled Angelina catching her hand when she brought her a cup of tea. “Stay with me, Grell,” she had begged. “Sit and talk with me. You’re my only friend.” She remembered laughing together after a deadly dull dinner party, poking sly fun at the staid matrons and absurd dandies. When she nursed her through a severe cold or scolded her for her late hours at the hospital and Madam Red had stroked her cheek and said, “You’re the only one who _really_ cares about me. The only one who _really_ loves me.”

“You weren’t ordinary, Angelina,” she said in a broken whisper. “You weren’t dull or boring. You were beautiful and special. I wish you had believed it yourself.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” hissed a voice behind her.

Grell whirled to face a small dark-haired figure. “Good gracious, Ciel! I might ask you the same. What are you doing out at this time, on a night like this? What is Sebastian thinking of?” The snow was beginning to blow heavily. She could barely make out the carriage waiting by the graveyard gate.

“He doesn’t know I’m here. Tanaka’s driving. He wouldn’t approve.”

“Really! And how did you manage to give Sebastian the slip?”

“A cat wandered into the pantry. Sebastian was—distracted.”

The boy smiled so rarely. It was a shame, she thought. He looked quite transformed. She noticed the red roses he was holding. “You’re bringing flowers to Madam Red for Mothering Sunday,” she said softly. “That would have made her very happy.”

He laid the flowers next to Grell’s and stood in silence for a moment. “You’re doing the same.”

“She wanted a child so badly. I wanted her to have flowers today. I _did_ love her, you know.”

“You killed her. Do you feel any remorse?”

“Every day.” She squatted down and tugged Ciel’s coat collar higher. “That is my true punishment—to live for centuries with that knowledge.”

“Sebastian thinks I’m a child,” he said bitterly. “He thinks I blame you for helping her.”

“I couldn’t have stopped her, even if I had wanted to.”

“I know. Sebastian thinks I don’t understand that. You served her—not because of some contract, but because you wanted to. Because you truly cared about her.”

Grell felt sudden throb of sympathy for him. “You know, my mother died when I was very young. And my father . . . We won’t discuss that. But you have so many people who care about you—poor old Tanaka, freezing on the carriage box right now. And Finney and Bard and Mey Rin.”

“They’re servants. They’re paid to care about my well-being.”

“I’ve seen them try to think of ways to make you smile. I’ve seen them fuss among themselves when they know you’re unhappy. What’s to stop Tanaka from retiring to a nice little cottage somewhere? He’s devoted his entire life to the welfare of your family. No yearly stipend of a few pounds requires them to do that.”

“Did my aunt pay you?”

“I had no need to be paid. You know that, but she gave me something I needed very badly at that time.”

“You said once that you killed her because she chose me over you. Was that the only reason?”

His single blue eye searched her face as if he had just discovered an answer to a question that had long puzzled him. “What do you think?” she replied.

“I couldn’t have protected her from the law and, as the Queen’s Watchdog, I wouldn’t have.”

“She would have been arrested and tried and, probably, executed,” Grell said. “Her entire story would have been made public. She couldn’t have borne the shame.”

“So you served her to the very end,” Ciel said softly. “Thank you.”

Grell felt sudden tears spring to her eyes, felt the burden of guilt she had carried for the past two years lift and restrained the urge to fling her arms around the boy and hug him.

“You know everyone thinks I’m such a child that I don’t really understand why she killed those women,” he said scornfully, “and they think I don’t understand why you helped her.”

“So, Sebastian doesn’t keep you as sheltered as he believes,” she chuckled. The wind was blowing fiercely, whipping the snow around them.

“Madam Red wanted a child of her own more than anything,” he said as if she had not spoken. “So did you.”

He bent and plucked a few roses from the bouquet he had laid on the grave and handed them to her. “For you. Just for once, you should have flowers on Mothering Sunday.”

Grell cupped his cheek and stared into his face, finally understanding why Undertaker loved this boy. They were both shivering with cold and she tucked her hand in his, steering him carefully across the icy ground and lifted him easily into the carriage. “You must get home. The roads will be impossible soon and, eventually, Sebastian will come out of his cat-induced stupor and notice you are gone.”

Pulling her coat close around her, she fingered the velvety petals of the roses thoughtfully. The snow was drifting against the graveyard fence, but she made her way back to Madam Red’s resting place.

“You loved him, Angelina,” she said. The words were swallowed by the howling wind. “Undertaker loves him. Perhaps, I can learn to love him a little. We’ll fight Sebastian for his soul, I swear.”

The flowers were already blanketed by the snow as she opened a portal, anxious to return to the warmth of Undertaker’s shop, anxious to share this odd encounter with him. To tell him she believed that Ciel’s soul was worth fighting for and to cherish the few seconds that he became her child.

**Author's Note:**

> March 9-13, 1891 saw one of the worst snowstorms in English history. Over 200 people and thousands of farm animals died. Entire trains were buried beneath the snow and gales sank dozens of ships in the Channel.


End file.
